


freedom of falling

by liquidsky



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 01:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17992313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: In which they get together.





	freedom of falling

**Author's Note:**

> thanks a lot for all the insta stories w that gigantic fucking hickey, alex!

James is not freaking out. Freaking out would involve pacing around, probably more drinking, and maybe even telling Fraser. So no, James is not freaking out. He has been staring at the same mispainted spot in his ceiling for an astoundingly long time, though, and his google searches for the past three days could possibly come across as worrying, but it's fine. He's fine. Alex is fine, too, in more than one of the available dictionary definitions, and that's sort of the problem.

James is unsure on when exactly it was that making out with your best mate became _making out with your best mate_ , but his guess is that it might've been around the time they ended up holding hands inside the BAFTA restroom and getting a bit too close to emotional. 

Now, as he thinks back to the odd lilt in Alex's voice when he'd told James there was no one else in the world he'd rather have by his side while being three feet away from his honest to God _idol_ , he feels weirdly warm. Feverish, almost, like his skin is burning too hot and a bit like he might actually start sweating. 

The whole thing’s pretty ridiculous, come to it, which is why he hasn't told anyone yet. Never mind that the person he'd tell also happens to be the subject matter of this particular mess—he'd probably settle for telling Fraser if there was anything to tell. Or, well, anything that wouldn't make him want to jump out of a window in sheer mortification. Because there is something, maybe, too embarrassing and vulnerable to share out loud. 

It's the upturned slope of Alex's nose, and the softness of his skin under James’ hands, and the taste of his mouth and even his stupid fucking mustache and the annoying rise of his voice as he eggs James on to fall for the stupidest shit. James’ whole thing is that it was fine to kiss a mate if you're drunk – games and other questionable flimsy excuses allowed for plausible deniability if one of them was to get too close, and guaranteed that things would remain well within platonic “no homo” limits. But, lying in bed and ignoring the sounds of Fraser and George yelling at each other down the hall, he closes his eyes and admits to having miscalculated the risks. It might have worked if all the people involved were straight, it might even have worked if at least _one_ of the people involved were straight, and sure, it might have worked even if absolutely no one was straight at all and all they _were_ were not Alex and James, but he'd been banking on the first two options, and now he's not. 

He knew about Alex, obviously, had always admired his candidness in talking about blokes, even as he scowled at people's general entitlement towards knowing. He's not sure whether it's more or less dumb that he'd known about Alex before he'd known about himself, but the fact of the matter is that that's what happened. 

At least he knows now, he settles on, picturing not only the lines of Alex's familiar lean shape but also the curves and angles of other bodies – ones he would've sworn not to have noticed over the years, that were not stored in his mind for safe-keeping. There's not really anything to swear on anymore. He knows, and he's pretty sure Alex knows, even if he's never told him, though, on second thought, he realizes that he might have. Maybe not with words. Instead with the weight of his arm around Alex's shoulders while they watch George and Will nearly off each other playing FIFA or with the curve of his fingers as they curl around Alex's waist or the press of his lips against the corner of Alex's mouth when they've been kissing for longer than appropriate and he still doesn't want to lean away. 

He's not sure what the better option is at this point, whether he wants Alex to know or just wants to stick to pretending that nothing's changed. With a sigh, James reaches for his earplugs and hits play on a song. It doesn't help – Trees is as good a song as it gets for him, but he can't turn off his thoughts long enough to focus on the melody. It's all Alex. His lips and his hands and his legs. Alex's teeth, his jumpers, the mess of his hair when he's just woken up and the brightness of his giggles when he's had too much to drink. Alex, as he opens the door to James’ bedroom and jumps face first into the bed, jostling James and his phone. 

“Ow,” James says, shoving Alex sideways. “What the fuck?”

“'m bored,” Alex tells him, shoving him back and immediately dropping both of his legs on top of James’. He pokes James’ sides and James bats him away. “What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” James asks, and Alex rolls his eyes. 

“Looks like you're being fucking depressed, mate.” 

“I'm not,” James says, because it's true. “Just busy,”

“Yeah?” and he sounds decidedly unconvinced, almost like he's about to laugh. “With what?” 

“Your mum,” James says, and Alex shoves him again. James doesn't say anything for a second, doesn't move back from how they end up closer together. Alex's hand is close to his on the bed, and James is suddenly hyper-aware of every inch between them, wants to move closer and closer, touch his hand and his arms and his neck and everything else there is. He's quiet, and when he looks up at Alex, Alex is already looking at him. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Alex asks. He has a way of sounding serious sometimes. It's easy to forget how genuinely thoughtful he is when they're busy taking the piss out of any and all things, but there are _moments_. Like this, with Alex's gaze turned serious and focused on his. 

“Not really,” James says. _I'm probably falling in love with you_ is a whole fucking lot to say to someone, even someone as close to him as Alex is. He wonders if Alex knows, if Alex can tell the difference in how the kissing's been lately. All the kissing—it’s mad that it just dawned on James that maybe there shouldn't _be_ any kissing. He hasn't kissed Will, hasn't kissed George, _definitely_ hasn't kissed Fraser. And yet. 

“You can tell me anything, you know that, right,” Alex tells him. 

“Melt,” James teases, only slightly afraid that he doesn't sound right, that he's too soft or too open or too off-kilter. 

“Cunt,” Alex mutters, feet kicking back to hit James across the shin. James laughs, leans closer to him still, and Alex shoots him a funny look. “Do you wanna _not_ talk about it?” 

James bristles, “You offering to distract me?” 

“Maybe,” Alex shrugs, and James searches his eyes for any signs of joking, doesn't find any. 

“Is that a thing we do now?” he asks. He feels unsure, one step behind the rhythm, but Alex doesn’t look nervous. He looks curious, slightly pink, and James’ eyes follow the movement of Alex’s tongue wetting his lips. 

“Could be,” Alex offers. It doesn’t sound like he’s taking the piss, doesn’t sound much like anything other than light-hearted, though his gaze turns heavy all of a sudden, and James’ palms start going clammy. He’s – he should be used to this. He is, a little bit, maybe used just enough that he knows what to expect, and that’s the reason he finds for the tightening in his stomach. He looks up at the ceiling, breathes in deeply, nudges his fingers against Alex’s on the bed, turns his palm up. 

He waits, and Alex's fingers slot easily in his own. He looks down, then, at Alex. Alex’s looking up at the ceiling, and James watches his profile, the jut of his chin and the gentle curve of his nose, his chest rising and falling as he breathes. James leans up on his elbows, and Alex moves his legs so he’s lying beside James instead of half on top of him, his eyes still not meeting James’. 

“Could be?” James asks, and Alex glances at him, the beginning of a smile starting to form. 

“If you’d like,” he tells James, and James hums, nods to himself before leaning down and pausing with his face just inches away from Alex’s. 

“Would you?” James starts. A loud bang comes from somewhere outside the room, followed closely by George screaming. Alex doesn’t move, though James knows he heard it too. “Like that?”

Alex sighs, breath warm against James’ lips. “Don’t be a tosser,” he tells him, and pulls him down. 

It’s easy – he’s kissed Alex too many times to count by now, but the familiar slide of his lips on Alex’s still makes his breath catch, his heart race. Alex kisses him in the most practiced of ways, leaning up to fit his body more firmly against James’, his tongue tracing James’ lips, hands traveling upwards to tangle in his hair. He spreads his legs, and James settles between them comfortably, resting with his elbows on each side of Alex’s body so he can press him into the bed with his weight. Alex hums into the kiss – a small, pleased little sound as James pushes Alex’s legs open with his own thighs, moving against him in a languid rhythm and biting down on his lips. 

There’s more yelling to be heard from whatever’s happening outside, but all James cares about are the heavy sounds of their breathing, the wet of their mouths on each other, the rustling of fabric as Alex grinds up against him. He plants his knees on the mattress, then, drags his lips down Alex’s throat, licks his Adam's apple, listens to him groan, feels Alex’s hands as they slide down his neck and back to squeeze James’ waist. 

Alex throws his head back, eyes closed, lips parted, and James bites him, lightly, before closing his lips around the skin of his neck and sucking hard. Alex gasps, and James doesn’t let go – it’ll leave a bruise, probably, a big one, and Alex’s hands are gripping his sides with enough strength that it almost hurts. He presses his mouth against Alex’s pulse point, pushes his tongue against the telltale of his accelerated heartbeat. 

They’ve kissed more times than James could be bothered to count, sure, but they’d never done this – he feels intoxicated, a different kind of drunk in which everything’s sharp instead of blurry, too many edges and too many kinds of warmth curling tightly around his limbs. He keeps making his way down Alex’s body, feels unstoppable, like the world could end and he’d gladly be taken with it, unaware of anything that isn’t the cadence of Alex’s voice as it mutters his name as quietly as James has ever heard him, the soft exhales he lets out as James leans away and onto his knees so he can push Alex’s jumper up and expose the planes of his torso, rest his lips and his tongue against the skin there. 

It’s almost like a spell, this weird trance he’s found himself in, his hands palming Alex’s sides, tongue aimlessly tracing patterns all over his skin. He tastes warm, a little salty, like clean skin and a little sweat. James brushes his lips against his sternum and Alex sighs. He starts kissing his way back up, Alex’s hands now resting softly on his head, but then something bangs loudly against his door, and the spell is broken. 

He leans away from Alex just as fast as Alex sits up, frantically shoving his jumper down to its usual place. He’s blushing, and breathing heavily, and James feels hard enough to break rocks, but his heart is racing. He looks back at the door, listens to Fraser’s loud laughter filtering through, but no one comes in. Instead, their loud swearing sounds farther and farther away, moving back to the lounge or wherever the hell they’re destroying next. James exhales, and Alex snorts. 

“Holy fuck,” he says. James meets his gaze. He looks good – lips swollen, eyes bright, a blush coloring his cheeks.

“I should move out,” James complains, and Alex laughs. 

“We could trade,” he says, “Let George and Fraser kill each other, bet you’d like living with me.”

“Too high maintenance,” James comments, and Alex kicks him. 

“Fuck off.”

James doesn’t reply, instead allowing himself to smile at Alex. Alex catches it, the fondness blooming in his chest as he watches him. He rolls his eyes. 

“D’you reckon you wanna talk about it now, then?” Alex asks. James stares at him – so he knows. 

“You know?” James asks him anyway. 

“ _Obviously,_ ” Alex tells him, leaning back against the bed frame and stretching out his legs. He looks straight at James, nudges him with his foot. 

James catches hold of it, “Why didn’t you fucking say something, then?”

“You had your whole,” he gestures, “ _straight_ thing going.”

“ _Come on,_ ” James says. “It’s–”

“ _I_ know,” Alex tells him, “Wasn’t sure you did, is all,” 

“I didn’t,” James admits, and Alex nods, “Not for a while,” 

Alex looks at him for a long minute, “And now you do?” 

“Obviously,” says James. 

Alex grins, all teeth. “Good,” and moves awkwardly to kneel in front of James on the bed. James smiles back at him, leans forward aiming for a kiss. Alex stops him, hand on his chest. “We should lock the door. I’ll fucking kill myself if Fraser walks in on us fucking.”

“Fucking?” James says, then, voice going high as it does when he’s taking the piss. Alex shoves him, and he snorts, “That’s romantic,”

“Go lock the fucking door, you melt,” Alex tells him, flopping down onto the bed. 

James looks at him, shakes his head, and goes.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to the bestest of friends!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <3 <3 (the title is a line that repeats itself on 2 different dean lewis songs, because of course it had to be)


End file.
